


Halloween 2013 Ficlet-a-Thon

by kototyph



Series: Halloween Trick or Treat Ficlets [6]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I invited trick-or-treaters into my inbox, and this was the result!</p><p>1. Supernatural - Team Free Love, G, 345 words - Pumpkin-carving<br/>2. Teen Wolf - Derek/Stiles, R, 294 words - Masks and make-outs<br/>3. Teen Wolf - Derek/Stiles, PG-13, 508 words - Haunted house fun<br/>4. Supernatural - Sam/Cas, G, 200 words - Fourth of July fireworks<br/>5. Supernatural RPF - Jensen/Misha, NC-17, 1.2k words - TENTACLES~<br/>6. Supernatural - Sam/Lucifer, hard R, 862 words - an incubus walks into a bar (EXTREME DUBCON)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Hi, I've been reading some of your fics on ao3 and I was wondering if you could write another dean/Sam/Gabriel/Castiel fic and a perhaps a j2m. Please! Your fics are really good by the way :)

"What the hell is that supposed to be, anyway?" Dean asks, squinting at Gabriel’s pumpkin. "Are those wings?"

"Maaaaybe," Gabriel drawls, frowning down at his masterpiece before reaching out and removing another tiny sliver of bright orange flesh.

"Right," Sam says decisively, "it’s completely dark outside and the we’re waiting on you to light the candles. Time to shine, Gabe."

"Just give me a minute," the archangel says, scowling at the fractal, almost abstract figure carved deep in the pumpkin.

"You said that an  _hour_  ago,” Dean says. “Time’s up.”

He grabs the pumpkin off the table and holds it high over his head. ”Hey!” Gabriel snatches after it, but Dean passes to Sam and Sam carries it out of the kitchen, down the hall and to the front door, where Castiel is just opening it to serve another round of small children in costumes from their frankly enormous bowl of candy.

"Is it time, then?"

"It is  _not_  time!” Gabriel insists, but Dean brandishes a long lighter with a grin. 

"Hell yeah, it’s time," he says, accompanied by a burst of flame from the tip.

Castiel has set the other three pumpkins in a row just so, and it’s another long while before he seems satisfied with is arrangement of the fourth and final.

"Drumroll, please," Dean says, and Sam obliges while Gabriel sulks and Castiel looks on curiously.

"Oh," Castiel says suddenly, once Dean’s managed to get Gabriel’s candle lit and inside, "wait, Gabriel, is that—?"

"Yes it is," Gabriel says, all smug looks and cocky smiles again, and Castiel bursts out laughing while Dean and Sam look on, completely confused.

"What’s so funny?" Sam says. "It looks like a… mutated snowflake."

"Or a deformed waffle," Dean adds. "With maybe-wings."

For some reason, this just makes Castiel laugh harder and even Gabriel is having trouble swallowing his chuckles.

"What?" Dean says, annoyed.

“ _Assbutt_ ,” Castiel wheezes, then says something in Enochian that has Gabriel bent over too, both of them breathless and giggling.

"Exactly," Gabriel manages, "and what’s a little caricature between family?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [purplefly628](http://purplefly628.tumblr.com/) asked:
> 
> Trick or Treat: Sterek, I'm thinking High School AU like masquerade ball style. They don't know who the other is but "hate" each other in real life and hook up at a party...blah blah blah Sterek smuttiness ensues?

The guy’s wearing one of those cheap black domino masks, the ones they were handing out at the door for the people too lazy bring their own, but at the moment Derek could literally not care less about his hook-up’s lack of preparation. The domino means that his mouth, oh holy fuck his gorgeous, gorgeous mouth is free, and when he’s using that mouth to suck a stinging bruise low on Derek’s stomach while his fingers work open his fly, then Derek has no objections. To anything.

"Oh, fuck," he gasps, hands running restless through hair too short to grab at, "fuck, yeah, come on—"

He can’t actually hear if the guy says anything back, but then, he probably can’t hear Derek either. The music is obnoxiously loud, even in the upstairs bathroom, and its only by the vibration of a moan against the cut of his hip that Derek knows he’s making any noise at all.

Brown eyes gone molten stare up at him as the guy slides his pants down, holding his gaze as the guy leans forward and mouths at Derek’s cloth-covered dick, a sudden wash of wet heat that’s almost too much and not nearly enough. Derek tugs at his head, urging him on, and something like a laugh gets huffed against his shaft.

"Come on," Derek says, trying not to whine, and some part of that must be understandable because the boxers come down and the guy’s hands come up. Halfway through, when the domino mask gets pushed askew and Derek realizes he’s fucking Stiles fucking Stilinski, it doesn’t even matter because he’s practically sitting on the sink with a knee over Stiles’ shoulder, all but grinding into his face and his fingers, oh sweet God his fingers—


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [queeniebroccolini](http://queeniebroccolini.tumblr.com/) asked:
> 
> happy halloween!!! stiles, scott and cora dare each other to check out the 'haunted' house at edge of town. derek goes after them because his little sister's friends are dumb and they'll probably all get tetanus or something if they step foot in that deathtrap

"H-hell," Stiles says shakily, tweaking the nose of an evil-faced clown mannequin as they pass it. Thankfully it doesn’t jump at him the way the scarecrow three rooms back did. "This— this isn’t scary, this is like— second grade, remember, Scott, Mrs. Boreanus and the, like, haunted gym thing—"

"Shut up," Scott whispers, clinging to Cora’s hand as she leads them on through the near-perfect darkness of the house. "Shut  _up,_ they’ll  _hear_ us—”

And like he summoned them, one of the Hills Haunted House staff jumps out from a hidden doorway wielding a  _freaking chainsaw._ Stiles knows it’s just some twenty-something meathead who wanted to make a couple bucks and doesn’t mind scarring people for life, but that doesn’t mean he runs the fuck away any slower. 

In the mad scramble, he loses his deathgrip on the back of Scott’s tee and he’s suddenly alone, blundering through the eerily-lit rooms and black hallways by himself and oh, shit,  _oh shit_  they will never find his body, no one will ever know what happened because the house will  _eat him_  and he’ll become just another waxy, fake-looking corpse propped up in a corner to scare the crap out of gradeschoolers—

He smacks into something, some _one_ right in the chest and screams “SHIT ME ON A GODDAMN FUCKING BANANA” in a register he hasn’t touched since puberty.

The someone grabs his shoulders and says, “Jesus Christ, Stilinski, it’s me!”

It’s not something an evil clown or Vorhees-wannabe would say. Stiles still kicks the dude in the shin, just to be sure.

"Ow! _Stiles!”_

"Oh my God, Derek," Stiles whimpers, "get me out of here, I don’t want to die a virgin—"

"What," Derek says flatly, then, "wait, where’s Cora? Weren’t you supposed to be together?"

"She’s probably dead," Stiles says bleakly. "We should save ourselves."

"Damn it, Stiles—" Derek says, exasperated, and then the chainsaw guy leaps out at them and Derek— Derek straight-up punches the guy in the face. Stiles might scream something about shitsucking condom balloons, but no one can prove he did.

They get kicked out of the haunted house (for  _life_ , score) and find Scott and Cora ‘waiting’ for them outside, laughing and eating caramel apples with Allison and Lydia and obviously having a grand old time.

"Would you even have cared if I became a seasonal prop?" Stiles asks, wounded, and Scott pats his shoulder and hands him a popcorn ball.

"I would have looked for you every year," he says solemnly, "and sworn vengeance on every dude in a hockey mask. You know I would."

Slightly mollified, Stiles goes to take a bite of his popcorn ball and Derek steals it right out of his hand, taking a huge, obnoxious bite while Stiles gapes. “Hey!”

"Saved you," Derek says around his mouthful. "I get a fifty percent cut of all your candy. Excluding tootsie rolls."

"I never agreed to that!" Stiles sputters, and Derek raises an eyebrow and takes another big, noisy bite.

"Ten."

"A third."

"Twenty-five!"

"… done."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Trick or treat! Sastiel 4th of July?

"This does not seem very safe," Castiel says, one foot on the windowsill. 

"It’s fine, look," Sam coaxes, knocking on the shingles next to him. His legs swing out into empty air, a full two stories between them and the patchy grass of the house’s backyard. "Solid as a rock."

Castiel settles a ginger hand on the sloping roof beyond the window, like he expects it to collapse under the slightest pressure, and says, “We could just go to the park with everyone else.”

“ _Cas,”_  Sam groans, “come  _on._ " 

Castiel edges out onto the roof, low and slow and creeping. Hands first, then a knee, then a cooler. 

"Oh hey, good idea," Sam says, reaching for the handle and dragging it down. 

Castiel settles himself well away from the edge of the roof, leaning back against worn blue siding, and Sam hands him a beer he likely won’t touch just as the first whistling scream sounds in the darkening evening.

"Was that—?" Cas starts, and the sky above them explodes into long streaks of shimmering gold and green, huge hollow boom echoing through the streets below.

"What did I tell you?" Sam crows, laughing. "Best seats in the house!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [deanstolemyheart](http://deanstolemyheart.tumblr.com/) asked:
> 
> "Trick or Treat"
> 
> PEOPLE WHO DO NOT READ DIRECTIONS GET TRICKED
> 
> (sort of goes with [this](http://kotospook.tumblr.com/post/46721734075/snippet-cockles-tentacles))

So there's this running joke in the office that Misha is an alien, right? Beamed down from the mothership in Chicago to whip their sleepy little division back into productivity and profitability. Jensen can kind of see where the guys get it— the man is without a question _crazy_ , always on, always moving, with stamina that would put the Energizer Bunny to shame and a mind as sharp and brilliant as a piece of cut crystal: wicked, manic, inscrutable Spaceman Collins.

Misha took it in stride, thinks it's funny— all his memos are signed The Martian now _,_ andhis business cards have rockets on them—but Jensen doesn't like it, knows it comes from an uglier place than Richard or Matt pretend it does. And okay, it's true that Misha drives them ten times harder than Jim ever did, that he talks mostly in non sequitors and ellipses, and sometimes he just looks plain _weird_ in his huge baggy clothes and coats even in the summer. Those things have slowly tipped over to the cute and endearing side for Jensen, who's been crushing on his boss for months now, but yeah. He can understand where the guys get it.

He just didn't think they were _right_.

"Ah, Misha?" he says, the words edging out high and— concerned. He's _concerned,_ not scared shitless.

"Hm?" the other man hums, getting a knee over Jensen's waist and straddling him. He's just finished unbuttoning his shirt, white fabric gone all but transparent with rainwater, and he makes a show of tugging it off, tossing it into a far corner of the room with a smirk and a filthy downward grind of his hips.

Jensen can't help but rock up into it— they hadn't exactly kept their hands to themselves in the taxi, and has he mentioned his crush? He feels like he's been ready to pop since Misha asked if he had condoms— but the rest of him is pretty much frozen in shock, back stiff and hands gone rigid on Misha's thighs.

"You— uh."

"I— what?" Misha says with a half-grin, peeling out of his undershirt next, letting it fall with a heavy wet _plop_ onto the floor beside the bed.

With his tentacles.

His thick, glossy black, ominously rippling _tentacles_.

"Um," Jensen says, fingers digging in harder as a smaller one wanders over his wrist, stroking gently. He jerks and bites back a squeak as something trails suggestively up the inside of his knee.

Misha arches into a long, luxurious stretch, back bowing at an obscene angle and arms pulled up over his head. The tentacles twitch and start to uncoil and holy _shit,_ some of those fuckers are three feet long. At _least._ And there are a lot of them. Way more than eight, which rules out the 'carries a pet octopus' theory that just zipped through Jensen's head. He honestly wouldn't put it past Misha.

" _God_ that feels good," the man groans, thick black muscle stretching and curling around his torso, over his thighs and Jensen's legs. Jensen sucks in a startled breath as one plays low on his stomach, flirting with the waistband of his soaked slacks.

"Are those... are those _attached?_ " he asks weakly and Misha laughs, tentacles swaying with his shaking body.

"Why don't you check?" he asks, still chuckling as he slides his hands over Jensen's where they're still clutching his hips and tugging them up, pressing until they're spread over his back and sides.

"Whoa," Jensen says breathlessly as tentacles push and twine around his fingers, guiding him to where Misha's warm, still-damp skin meets the cooler, faintly rubbery texture of his extra limbs. Water makes the flesh there slick and slippery, a smooth frictionless glide that's just—

"Whoa. You— _Misha_ ," he says plaintively. "You have _tentacles_."

It makes Misha laugh again, leaning down to tap their foreheads together. "Problem?" he murmurs.

 _Yes,_ it's a freaking problem! Until two minutes ago Jensen thought his boss just maybe had a bit of a potbelly, not that he was _from outer space_. This goes way beyond baggy clothes and odd mannerisms. But... the slick tentacles press against his hands like they're begging to be pet and he splays his fingers, stroking curiously through the roiling nest to grip the base of one and pull. Just to see.

It earns him an interesting shudder and bitten-off moan, sleek muscle winding around his arm and _squeezing_ , and okay. Maybe there's less of a problem than he thought there was.

"This is so pre-third date material," Jensen grumbles, hands growing bolder.

"Jen," Misha says wryly, swaying into the touches, eyelids fluttering over blown pupils. "You cornered me in the c-copier room at the company Halloween party. We came straight to your place. There have been no dates."

It seems like the wrong time to mention he'd expected to be shot down so hard he left skidmarks, so instead Jensen tilts his head up and Misha meets him halfway, lips opening against his as Jensen's hands move to the front of Misha's pants, fumbling with the catch and zipper.

It’s actually  _more_  difficult to get their remaining clothes off with the tentacles out. Misha seems to think he’s helping, black tendrils plucking at buttons and snaking under fabric, wriggling in everywhere, and the feel of them skating over him is bad-dirty-wrong but mostly they’re just  _tickling Jensen to death_  and he’s laughing and squirming desperately, fighting to get Misha’s underwear down over the curve of his ass just as a tentacle worms its way into his one remaining sock and Jensen completely forgets what he was doing. “Goddamn it, Misha!” he yelps, flailing.

"Hold _— still_ , why don’t you,” Misha pants back, and there are suddenly tentacles wrapping his wrists and forcing them up, more tangling in his hair and tugging his head back and Jensen finds himself staring at the ceiling, Misha’s limbs at his arms, at his throat and over his chest, pinning him to the bed almost effortlessly. Jensen shifts and there’s barely any give, just flexing pressure and the promise of brutal strength, and that’s so much hotter than it should be.

"That’s better," and Jesus, was Misha’s voice always this deep? His hands are warm on Jensen’s hipbones where his slacks have ridden down and they’re finally coming off, cold, wet wool dragging along his skin until Misha shifts up to toss them away and good-fucking-riddance, because Misha’s pants have also disappeared somewhere in the struggle and when he leans in to mouth hotly up Jensen’s jaw there’s nothing but tacky-damp skin and the smoother slide of the tentacles between them.

Jensen’s breath comes in a shuddering “ _Fuck_ ,” as Misha’s body gives a slow, sinuous roll, cock riding along the cut of his hip and along the straining line of Jensen’s own erection. “Mm, yeah, right there.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked kotospook a question
> 
> Is it ok to include a pairing along with a prompt for your Halloween treat? I mean, I love all your SPN stuff, but out of all the ships in SPN I only ship Samifer. Thanks for being awesome, btw. :)
> 
> I _suspect,_  although I could certainly be wrong, that these are all from the same lovely anon, in which case I hope they don’t mind me combining them.
> 
> below the cut: sam/lucifer, extremely dubious consent, curtain!fic, the incubi mafia, unnecessary metaphors, ruby snark

Ruby spots him first, going from half-asleep in Lucifer’s lap to staring wide-eyed over his shoulder, inhaling over the flat of her tongue like a cat.

“Oh, yeah. I call dibs,” she says breathlessly, like there’s much hope of that when Lucifer lifts his head and scents the air as well, a sweet, rich taste like caramel and woodsmoke coating his throat and growing thicker with each breath. The door to the bar swings closed with a heavy thump, and the taste swells into something almost dense enough to choke on.

Lucifer licks his lips in appreciation and Ruby pouts, folding her arms across her chest. “I haven’t eaten in two weeks,” she says, “ _two freaking weeks_ , Daddy, I’m _starving_.”

“There’s a virgin in the corner who’s been staring at you for hours ,” he says unsympathetically. “And the bartender hasn’t taken her eyes off your breasts since we came in. Pick one.”

Ruby tries to glare at him, but her gaze strays back to whoever is filling the air with all that burnt-sugar need, and she gives a longing sigh. “He’s got to be delicious,” she says wistfully.

“If there’s anything left, I’ll let you have it,” Lucifer promises, though the chances of that are slim and getting slimmer. It feels like he has his back to a beckoning fire.

Ruby gives him a last resentful look and scoots off of him, walking with an extra sway in her hips towards the pool tables in the back room, and several sets of glazed eyes turn to watch her go.

Slowly, because he likes to savor these things, Lucifer turns on his stool to face the door and the two men who just came in, stomping snow off their boots and unbuttoning their coats as they move toward the bar. One of them slumps into a seat in obvious exhaustion, raising two fingers to order a double. The second eases onto the stool next to him, eyes scanning the crowded bar like he’s sensed someone’s watching. He’s a tall man, and young, so very young, hair falling into his eyes and a big hand braced on the bartop in front of him. Lucifer can taste him like dark, thick molasses clinging to his tongue, and it’s making him a little dizzy already.

Lucifer’s been drinking less for the alcohol than the camouflage, and as he lifts his glass to take a sip the man’s eyes move over him and onto the rest of the bar without pausing, oblivious.

Now, that simply won’t do.

A tiny flicker of power and the man shudders, hand balling into a fist on the scarred bar. His eyes fall and he bites his lower lip, shifting uncertainly in his seat, and Lucifer’s never swallowed anything as sweet as that first heady pulse of lust. He wants more immediately, and there’s nothing in this frozen little hamlet to stop him from getting it.

Still. Slow. Lucifer has tried to teach Ruby the patience necessary for lions in the tall grass, but she prefers to flirt and flaunt until they come to her, more like a deadly flower than a predator of men. Meg was a better student, and Abbadon, which is why they have their own prides now.

The man with the syrup-soaked scent must have a will of iron. It makes for a delightful half-hour of foreplay, unhurried and merciless, before he’s bent over the bar with his fingers twisted together in front of him, shoulders shaking and his face almost hidden from view. Almost.

His companion touches his arm, perhaps to ask if he’s feeling well, and the man jerks away, staggering off his stool like a drunk and all but running towards the cramped bathrooms in the back. Lucifer uncoils, and saunters after him.

The hallway leading to the two restrooms is dim and deserted, loud music from the rest of the bar filtering through the walls as muted drumbeats. The man is panting audibly when Lucifer catches up to him, twisting the doorknob just as Lucifer’s hand lands on his shoulder.

The man makes a noise of desperation and manages a swing at him, dazed and confused as he must be. Lucifer moves easily around the motion and pushes him into the room, locking the door behind them. Oh, he even has a _knife_ , a short, ugly little blade that slips to clatter to the ground when his eyes meet Lucifer’s in the half-dark.

“What’s your name?” Lucifer says, stepping into him.

“No,” the man says, stumbling over his own feet as he tries to back away. His shoulders hit the grimy wallpaper and Lucifer settles his hands at that thin waist, shirt rucked up so his fingertips graze hot, smooth skin. The thrall snaps taut, and the man moans, hips bucking into empty space.

“What,” he breathes between them, into air utterly saturated with lust, “is your name?”

“S-sam,” the man gasps, so eager to please now, head falling back as Lucifer’s lips move up his jugular. “My name is Sam.”

 _“Sam,”_ Lucifer says, warm and low, and Sam shivers helplessly under his hands. “I don’t suppose you'd like to come home with me?”


End file.
